Five bucks an hour
by glass-jars
Summary: Chuck Shurley's house is disgusting. He hires some 18 year old kid off Craigslist to clean it for 5.00 an hour.


Chuck sighed. All he wanted was to clean his house, but Lord was it a mess. Too daunting for him. He picked his way between two precarious stacks of books and let himself collapse face down on the couch. Books everywhere—in shelves, on the floor, on tables and his desk and under the couch and under his bed—hell there were books in some of the kitchen cupboards. Alongside a ridiculous amount of boxes of mac and cheese. And bourbon. Lots of bourbon, and shitty canned beer, and some juice boxes... Processed food, all of it, easy to make or microwave or eat cold out of the can—the best way to eat SpaghettiO's. Dust everywhere too, though. A thin coating of grime, almost. He needed to clean the bathroom and he needed to do his dishes and he needed to clean up his yard and his bedroom and wash his sheets and laundry and everything needed to be done.

But Chuck didn't want to do it. And couldn't really bring himself to start. Too late, too daunting, too dirty. He buried his face in the couch cushion and discovered it smelled vaguely like sweat and cat pee. Another thing to clean. Oh and he needed to wash out the litterbox—that, he would probably do. He at least tried to keep the cat's stuff nice. Chuck could live wallowing in his own laziness and lack of organization, but goddammit the cat deserved more.

Speaking of the cat, she jumped up onto the couch and immediately settled herself on the small of his back. Only after stabbing the squishiest parts of his sides with her pointy little paws, of course. She purred, and Chuck sighed again. He did that a lot. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

"Fuck."

Chuck dropped his hand down so his fingers brushed the carpet and groaned. He really needed to organize his house. His whole house. He really didn't want to. How could he have a cleaner house without having to clean it himself?

A maid?

Maids cost money, though. Chuck felt pretty sure he didn't have enough money to hire a maid. It's not like he made much money, as an unpopular occult novelist with a cult following. He wished. If only his cult following consisted of old white dudes with loads of money who would buy thousands of copies of his books. But no. Mostly young women, queer kids, teenagers, most with less money than him, or at least a normal amount of money spent in a normal fashion—no buying tons of books or posters.

Such a shame.

With a grumble, Chuck dislodged the cat from his back and heaved himself to his feet. "Who the hell do I call to clean a house." He straightened his robe and wandered to the kitchen, where his old-fashioned pastel yellow (it used to be green) phone hung on the wall. He grabbed the phonebook from his desk and sat down. Time to get to work, searching for a maid or something.

Page after page turned to nothing useful, or at least, nothing affordable for a pathetic, semi-alcoholic, middle-aged novelist with chronic nightmares.

Chuck gave up after less than ten minutes. He decided to make himself some mac and cheese, drink some juice, and go to bed. The cat rubbed up against his ankles and wove between his legs back and forth while he stood at the stove waiting for the water to boil and wrinkling his nose at the smell of something turning to charcoal beneath the burner. He turned the fan on and it felt like half the world had been destroyed because of the noise—no sounds got through its whir. Not traffic, not the fridge humming, not the obnoxious dog next door barking nonstop. Chuck shook his head.

He rushed his noodles a little, so they ended up a little more al dente than desired, but oh well. Food is food. He sat at his computer while he ate, and browsed Craigslist under the household services section. He hoped for something inexpensive, but most jobs were twenty dollars an hour or more. He sighed. Scrolled past the numerous listings for carpet cleanings, and the one for the French maid service. More carpet cleaning.

"DIRT CHEAP HOUSECLEANING: Young and buff: Will clean house/lift boxes."

That could be worth looking into. Chuck clicked through. One picture—a fairly sturdy young man with messy white-blond hair and a muscle shirt standing next to a pickup truck, white and shiny. The kid looked no older than twenty at most, and wore one of the most cheeky grins Chuck had ever laid eyes on.

And according to the description, he charged "Five bucks an hour to clean your shit up or help you move." Chuck scribbled down his contact information on a sticky note and stuck it to his computer screen before taking his dirty bowl to the sink. He left it there, and went upstairs, turning off the lights as he went.

Nightly ritual: brush teeth, pee, bed.

Chuck squirmed around in the darkness for a few seconds, trying to untangle his sheets, and finally settled down partially on his side, staring toward the window that looked out over the street. He sniffed—his allergies to the cat had apparently decided that bedtime was the best time to attack him. He wrinkled his nose.

The cat scratched at his bedroom door.

But she wasn't allowed in—the bedroom, he treated as the cat-free room. Kept the hair from his clothes and made sleep a little easier than otherwise. He'd slept with the cat on his face once and woke up sneezing. So he ignored her dramatic scritching and meowing, and stuck his face in his pillow as he tried to fall asleep.

In the morning, Chuck woke early. The crow outside his window croaked every few minutes and he couldn't ignore it. It just kept making that horrible sound, over and over, right outside his window. The other birds didn't help, with all their peeping and twittering. And the jays. Oh, the jays, with their grating chainsaw calls—sure, they were pretty, all blue and black, but was that really worth the noise? Not in Chuck's opinion.

He finally rolled out of bed, and went about his morning. Wandered into the bathroom to pee and sort of shower (which consisted of dousing his hair in the sink so he could brush out his bedhead). He looked at his razor, and like most mornings, decided not to shave. The stubble suited him, at least. He looked like a lazy slob, but in a cute way. He hoped. Okay, maybe not so cute, now that he stared at himself in the mirror. Scruffy half-beard, messy curls, deep crow's feet, dark bags under his eyes. Yeah... he kinda looked he might die any moment. Maybe if he got a haircut and trimmed his beard and wore nice clothes... Because he'd had the stubble and the sunken eyes and the wrinkles for a long time, and still never had too much trouble getting dates. Or one night stands. There must have been something appealing in his look. Maybe people liked boys who seemed about to keel over.

Yeah, right. Chuck rolled his eyes. He made his way downstairs to the kitchen and began the daily search for his coffee. Where the hell had he put it the day before? Oh. It was only next to the stove this time. A relief, considering he once found his bag of coffee grinds in the oven. And the refrigerator, but he could understand that somewhat. Food goes in the fridge, after all.

He paced around impatiently while he waited for his coffee to finish. The coffee machine grumbled at him menacingly. Hopefully it wouldn't explode. Again.

After what felt like forever, he had his coffee. He also filled a bowl full of Lucky Charms and almost poured his coffee all over them before realizing what he was about to do. He shook his head and used milk, like he meant to, and finally sat down at his computer desk—the only place with enough room for him to eat. The kitchen table had long ago been buried underneath stacks of books. He stared at the sticky note on the computer screen while he ate.

Chuck could barely read his own handwriting, but it seemed clear enough. So when he finished, he dialed the number he'd scrawled down, then immediately hung up.

"I'll just take a shower first." His mouth twisted. "A real shower. Yeah. Wake myself up." He grabbed his coffee and took it upstairs with it so he could leave it on the counter while he ran a bath. Not a shower, but good enough. He liked baths because he could make them bubbly. So he did. A large portion of strawberry scented bubble bath, dumped right in the tub until it filled with bubbles. A good way to relax, before making business-like phone calls.

Chuck knew he was just making an excuse not to call, though. But as he sank into his bath he couldn't bring himself to care too much. He liked bubbles and hot water. And the fruity smell. He loved the fruity smell most of all. It made him think of cake, and he liked caked, and he liked strawberries. And sugar. He let himself go limp in the water, closing his eyes. He listened to the birds outside and their obnoxious excuse for singing. He contemplate closing the window to block them out, or turning on the bathroom fan, but decided he didn't want to move. So he tried to ignore them. It worked until a seagull landed on his roof (or something) and started to screech as loud as it possibly could.

Chuck screwed his face up with a grumble. When the gull continued to... meow... or whatever it was called, Chuck finally shouted, "Shut the fuck up, you winged asshole!"

For a moment, the bird fell silent. Then it squeaked again.

With a roll of his eyes, Chuck sank deeper into the water, until the bubbles covered his collar. He sighed. Closed his eyes and leaned his head against the tub, and let his knees stick out of the water so he could lay more comfortably. The bird seemed to finally shut up. Chuck gave another sigh, but this time of relief.

He wallowed in his bubble bath for a while, until his fingertips turned wrinkly.

Eventually, after drying off and standing in front of the mirror, naked, for a while, Chuck put his pajamas back on and went downstairs so he could make his phone call. He grabbed the sticky note, leaned on the kitchen wall, and dialed. The phone rang several times before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Chuck wrinkled his nose. "Um. Hi. Is this, uh, Luce Milton...?" He raised his eyebrow. An odd name, at least not one he'd seen very often. Or ever.

"Yeah. Why? You're not a cop, are you? I told Michael—"

"What? No!" Chuck nearly dropped the phone switching to the other ear. "I saw your ad on craigslist about the—the cheap housecleaning stuff and I just... Wanted to see if it was, I dunno, legit?" He shifted, scratching the back of his leg with his toes.

There was a long silence, then, "Ohhhh." Luce seemed to laugh under his breath. "Sorry, yeah. I forgot about that. But, yeah, totally legitimate. Five dollars and hour. I'll clean your house, I'll mow your lawn. Hell I'll give you a massage and fuck your wife."

"E—excuse me?"

Luce laughed louder, then. "I'm joking. I promise. Where do you live? I'll probably go anywhere, but there are a few places that are too far to drive."

Chuck thought a moment, trying to decide if he could trust this kid. He narrowed his eyes. "Kripke's Hollow. Know where that is?"

"Oh, sure, that's less than ten minutes away by _foot_. I can get there in like two minutes with my brother's truck."

"Really? Awesome. Um. So, like, my house is kind of ridiculous and there's lots of books but do you think this weekend could be doable? I mean, it's okay if you can't—"

"Dude, chill." Luce sounded like he might have been smiling. "I'm free any time, to clean whatever pig sty you live in."

They discussed details for a few minutes, and Chuck gave Luce his address.

Saturday morning, bright and early.

Chuck wondered if he should try to tidy up at least a few small spaces.

He ended up falling asleep on his stained couch instead.

Saturday morning came with more loud crows and jays and gulls, and also a light drizzle. Chuck showered almost immediately after waking up, only to discover his hot water had gone out for no apparent reason. He even trimmed his beard, a little, so it at least looked neat, and he put on clean-ish clothes. Jeans and a non-nerdy graphic t-shirt. Suitable, right? For good measure, Chuck threw on his canvas jacket. It was July, but he still felt uncomfortable with nothing covering his arms. Sure, he couldn't layer multiple shirts and coats, but he could at least wear a very light jacket.

He made himself breakfast while he waited for Luce to show up.

Sure enough, the moment he finally sat down with his toast and cereal, the doorbell let out a strangled attempt at a buzz. Violent knocking followed almost immediately, insistent and loud. Chuck cursed and rushed to the door. "Coming! I'm coming!" He tugged the door open. "Sorry, I was just eating... breakfast..." He trailed off, caught up in staring at who he assumed to be Luce. "...Hi."

Luce raised an eyebrow. He crossed his arms, and Chuck tried to ignore the fact that he was shaped like an extremely muscular hourglass. In tight white jeans. Very tight.

"You—" Chuck gestured vaguely. "You're... Luce?"

The younger man smirked and held out his hand. "Call me Lucifer. You must be Mr. Shurley."

"Oh, God, just Chuck, please. I'm not... I'm not a _mister_."

Lucifer snorted. "Well, Chuck." He winked. "Gonna invite me in, or should I just move you out of my way and clean the house without an invitation?" He gave that cocky smirk again, looking down at Chuck with just a bit of condescension in his eyes, and licked his teeth.

Chuck froze for a second but finally found the words to say, "Yeah—I. Yeah. Come in. Bring your... stuff. Or whatever. Cleaning stuff."

"Cleaning stuff." Lucifer shook his head with a click of his tongue. "I'll take a quick look around and then retrieve my things from the truck. Mind moving out of the way?"

Almost jumping out of the way, Chuck muttered, "Sorry, yeah. Sorry. Come in." He felt extremely drab compared to the well-built, clean-shaven, stylishly messy-haired 18 year old following him down the hall. The pierced ears (and apparently tongue) didn't help. Nor did the very, very shiny black combat boots.

He stopped in the living room and said, "Well, here it is. Most of the mess is here, downstairs, and stuff." He scratched the back of his neck. Couldn't help but notice Lucifer's shirt seemed to be for a 1975 Led Zeppelin concert. He tilted his head. "You weren't even alive in 1975."

"Excuse me?" Lucifer's brow furrowed.

Chuck flushed. "Oh. Um. Your shirt. 1975. I just—you weren't... born... yet." He grimaced and stared down at his feet, biting his lip.

Lucifer laughed. "Well, you're right. I like Zeppelin, though." He shouldered his way past Chuck, floorboards creaking under his weight. "You have a cat?" He pointed to the cat curled up on the couch.

"Yeah. That's not... a problem, is it?"

"No, no." Lucifer crouched down and scratched the cat's ears. She purred at him. "I like cats."

"Oh, that's good."

Lucifer wandered around the house for a few minutes, just checking things out, before he made his way back outside, to the slick black pickup truck he'd parked across Chuck's driveway. He grabbed a couple of toolboxes and carried them over. Chuck tried not to stare at his biceps. Judging by Lucifer's knowing grin as he walked back into the house, Chuck didn't succeed.

Setting his toolboxes down, Lucifer asked, "Do you have a stereo?"

Chuck nodded and pointed. Only nice thing he owned other than books—tape player on the bottom, CD player in the middle, record player on top, AM/FM radio. Lucifer went to it looking fairly pleased, and poked around for a few seconds. He dug around in one of the toolboxes and pulled out a CD Chuck couldn't see the cover of.

It turned out to be Cyndi Lauper.

Needless to say, Chuck couldn't help but be slightly surprised.

Lucifer shot him a wink, as if he knew exactly what Chuck was thinking. "You got a broom or should I get that from the truck?"

Chuck nodded. He showed Lucifer the closet where he kept the broom, mop and vacuum. "All the cleaning stuff is in here. There's not a lot, though."

"Cool." Lucifer checked his watch. Paused to take a slim iPhone from his pocket and type something in. He put it away and grabbed the broom. "Time to kick this house's ass."

"That sounds dangerous."

Lucifer laughed.

Chuck sat at his computer desk while Lucifer swept the wood flooring in the living room. He eventually migrated to the kitchen, past Chuck, leaving little piles of dirt and dust here and there. He found the trash can without having to ask, and dumped the accumulated grime into it before disappearing from the room. Chuck decided to see if he could get some writing done, while Lucifer was off doing whatever he did. Probably sweeping the bathroom.

He ended up writing maybe a paragraph before giving up and leaning back in his chair with a grumble. His mind drifted to thoughts of food. Good food—not packaged, processed food, but homemade food and also chocolate. He wanted his dad's homemade Kahlúa cream pie... Also some vegetables. But that, he could probably manage. He scooted his chair back and headed to the fridge. Stuck his head in, to see what he could find.

Old wilted lettuce. Old dried out carrot. Old sliced tomato getting moldy.

Chuck could have sworn he bought some kind of vegetable recently, but from the looks of his fridge he hadn't even been to the grocery store in at least a week. His milk was just about depleted. Also his cheese, and his beer. He grimaced. Shoved some stuff around. Threw away a plastic baggy with a piece of molding cheese. He wondered if he could find anything at all.

The only thing he discovered? Frozen peas.

With a grumble, he shut the fridge and turned around to find himself confronted with the cat. She meowed at him and butted his leg. Purred. Twisted around his ankles. Chuck leaned down and rubbed her back. "Hey there." He scratched her ears. "Is it time for lunch?" He got another meow in response. He retrieved the big orange bag of cat food from the cupboard and poured a bit into the cat's bowl. She swatted at his toes once before cornering her food and sniffing at the little pellets. She turned her back to Chuck, who shook his head and moved the bag of cat food back where it belonged. He walked out into the living room. Lucifer had moved the rug from under the couch—had moved the couch, in fact, so it stood pushed up against the wall and the window. Lucifer had also moved the coffee table. Onto the couch with the rolled up rug. Chuck hoped the coffee table didn't fall and break. All of the other furniture had been moved to the edges of the living room.

Lucifer looked up. "I just wanted to tell you that this is going to take at least two days." His forehead creased, and his nose wrinkled as he muttered, "Your house is filthy."

"It's just dirty!" Chuck crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. He watched Lucifer wet his mop. "I mean, it's not like there's mud and cat shit everywhere, or something."

Momentary silence.

"Your _lampshade_ is stained." Lucifer ran the mop along the floorboards. "Your couch is stained. You're lucky your entire house is decorated in fifty shades of brown because your walls and floors are probably stained too, but it's invisible."

Looking down at the floor, Chuck couldn't disagree. He scratched the back of his neck. Bit the inside of his cheek. "My clothes are clean and not stained, if that's any help..." He paused. "Well, my robe is frayed but it's not _dirty_." He crossed his arms.

"That's good. Clean clothing is generally where I draw the line with people." Lucifer squinted at the floor. "Your house is still disgusting, though, and even though you clearly take the cat's litter out on a regular basis your bathroom _reeks_. And you need a new shower curtain. Mildew is not your friend." He continued to mop in a slowly growing circle, while Cyndi Lauper sang of memories and love and all that stuff. He hummed along.

For a while, Chuck just hovered at the edge of the room watching Lucifer mop the living room—and the kitchen, too, eventually. He ended up sitting at his desk because Lucifer wanted him and his feet out of the way of the mop.

At one point, Lucifer grabbed hold of the chair while Chuck was in it, and pushed it away so he could get at a spot he'd missed. Chuck tried not to let his surprise show. He was almost impressed before he remembered the fact that he didn't exactly weigh a whole lot, and Lucifer had biceps the size of his head. He still kind of felt impressed.

Around one or so, with Lucifer doing something in the living room involving a lot of swearing, Chuck set about making some kind of lunch. He figured, for one thing, that he ought to feed the guy who was cleaning his house for less than minimum wage. He cobbled together a couple of sandwiches with the remnants of the food in his fridge, and put one on a plate. The other, he shoved into his mouth as he made his way out of the kitchen. He mumbled something completely unintelligible, stopping in the doorway.

Lucifer looked up. He raised his eyebrows. "For me?" At Chuck's nod, he grinned. "Nice." He grabbed the plate from Chuck and leaned against the arm of a chair—the one that normally stood across from the couch but that Lucifer had moved across the room in his quest to clean the floor.

He seemed to enjoy the sandwich.

At least, Chuck hoped so. At the very least, he didn't keel over and die.

"Oh, I have to go home in about an hour, by the way." Lucifer wiped some crumbs from his fingers. "My brother wants his truck by three, at the latest." He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed for a bit before continuing, "So I'll come back tomorrow morning. But tomorrow I can go all day." He shot Chuck a smirk. "If you know what I mean."

Chuck frowned. "Don't make innuendos at me. You're supposed to be a maid-for-hire."

"I'm not a maid!"

Chuck laughed. He wiped his hands on his pants and leaned against the doorframe. "Okay, whatever you say." He poked at the cat with his foot—she licked his toes and proceeded to ignore him, walking across the living room so she could disappear upstairs.

Both Lucifer and Chuck watched her go.

"Your cat seems very aloof."

Chuck made a face. "She's a _cat_. That's like—like a fundamental part of her genetic makeup."

Lucifer cocked his head, mouth curling up at the edges just a bit. "Those are some fancy words, there."

"I'm an author."

At that, Lucifer snorted. He handed his empty plate to Chuck and went to wring out his mop into a big white bucket that certainly didn't belong to Chuck—must have brought it with him, in the back of that shiny black pickup. Chuck took the plate to the sink, and decided he should wash the dishes. After all, he had an almost total stranger cleaning the rest of his house. The least he could manage was to do the dishes. He scrubbed at some plates—caked with probably weeks-old food—and listened to the water run. He hoped Lucifer would tell him before leaving, because he couldn't hear much over the noise of the faucet, and he didn't want to turn around to discover himself completely alone.

He frowned. Sudden loneliness wasn't rare for him, but usually it accompanied talking to an old friend on Facebook or seeing some blog article about the effects of hugs on the psyche. Chuck chewed on the inside of his cheek—something he did when nervous or thoughtful. He lined up a few bowls in the top rack of the dish washer. Glanced over his shoulder, briefly, to double-check Lucifer hadn't left, and turned back to the sink and its soap-filled water when he saw the younger man still tinkering around in the living room.

By the time Chuck finished his dishes and turned the washer on, Lucifer had begun to pack things up. Lids onto cleaners, bucket emptied into the bathtub upstairs, and so on, and so forth. He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, as he double-checked his supplies—made sure nothing had gone missing.

"So, tomorrow morning, right?" Chuck stuck his hands in his back pockets, attempting to seem casual but mostly succeeding in looking like a dork. He bit his lip. Was that too obvious? Yes. Probably.

Lucifer gave him a strangely smug look. "What, lonely already?"

Wrinkling his nose, Chuck muttered, "No!" He scratched the back of his ankle with his toes. "I just... wanted to know when my house will be, you know... Sparkly."

"Hmm..." Lucifer snapped the lid shut on his larger toolbox, and straightened up, crossing his arms. He raised his eyebrows, making his forehead crease. "I don't know..." He glanced at his watch. Pulled his phone out of his pocket, and poked at it a few times. "By the way, you owe me $23.50."

Chuck blinked. "Wow, really? That's... well I guess you do charge five bucks an hour, huh?" He bit back a small grin. "Um—do you... Do you want that now or can I get it to you tomorrow? 'Cause I don't have any cash on me or anything. I mean, unless you have one of those... swipe-y things for your phone?"

"Tomorrow's perfectly fine."

Relieved, Chuck nodded. "Cool. Great—that's. That should work. I'll just go to the... ATM..." He let himself trail off, as he realized Lucifer probably didn't give two shits about exactly what Chuck would do to get his money, so long as he got it.

Lucifer only seemed amused, and grabbed both his toolboxes. "Help me with mop, would you?" With his smirk firmly in place, he turned tail and headed toward the front door. Chuck grabbed the mop and the empty bucket and hurried after him. Everything went into the bed of the truck, and then the tarp went over that, fastened with bungee cords. Lucifer shook Chuck's hand. His eyes glinted a peculiar shade of blue in the light through the gathering storm clouds—a color that reminded Chuck of anti-freeze, or blue raspberry Jell-O, or something. (It was a weird, too-vibrant shade, for sure. Chuck was no stranger to blue eyes, considering his own were blue. But Lucifer's were just... a little creepy.)

"Well, if you're done staring at me, I think I'll go now." Lucifer opened the driver's side door, with one eyebrow raised.

Chuck looked away, at the cracked sidewalk. "Yeah—uh. See you tomorrow."

Lucifer didn't respond. He climbed into the truck, closed his door, and started the engine. With barely a second glance, he drove off, leaving the smell of exhaust in his wake.

For a second, Chuck stood there. Then he shook himself and scurried back inside. The clouds looked like they might unleash death at any moment, and he preferred staying indoors to getting drenched. Or struck by lightning, knowing his luck.

Despite all expectations, the clouds remained firmly in place and not a single drop of rain fell. Chuck rode his old battered bicycle to the bank—because his motorbike had busted itself months before—and got his money, and still no rain. With $100 in various bills shoved into his wallet, Chuck popped out of the bank and fastened his helmet. He unlocked his bike from the rack, began to ride down the street, and was immediately assaulted by a torrential downpour.

"Crap." He dismounted—no way would he try to ride his bike in rain like that. In seconds, the concrete and asphalt had gone dark and damp, and little rivulets already began to trickled down the road alongside the curb. He walked across the street, pulling his bike alongside him. He tried to decide whether or not to take his glasses off. In the choice between reading street signs and not being blinded by raindrops on his lenses, Chuck went with the latter. He pocketed his glasses, wishing he had their case, and continued on his way home.

By the time he opened his front door, the rain had drenched him completely. Even his shirt, underneath his sweatshirt, stuck to his skin with wetness. He took off his helmet. At least his hair was dry. He went upstairs to the bathroom and immediately stripped out of all of his clothes. He shivered. Dashed to the bedroom for just a second to grab a dry pair of underpants and his pajamas, and started the shower. He stepped in once the water heated up enough, and hissed. It felt too hot at first, but as he adjusted to the warmth it began to feel very nice. He even closed his eyes for a few seconds.

Unbidden, the thought of Lucifer hopped into his mind. He shoved it away.

It came right back.

Chuck swore. He couldn't fantasize about an eighteen year old! That was... morally questionable. And embarrassing. Chuck rubbed his face, scrunching his eyes up and wrinkling his nose. Lucifer was a reasonably attractive young man. He was also roughly half Chuck's age. But buff, and blond—no, wait, that made him sound too much like Rocky. Buff and... Chuck couldn't think of a better way to describe him, except that he wore his smile like he knew something no one else did. Cheeky. Or perhaps shit-eating, depending on the situation.

In general, throughout the morning, that grin had made Chuck feel equal parts made fun of and magnetically attracted.

What did people always say—"Opposites attract"?

Rolling his eyes, Chuck finished his shower. Successfully kept himself from thinking inappropriate thoughts about his temporary housecleaner, but unsuccessfully prevented his hair from getting wet. He grumbled to himself and shook the water from his hair, and ran his fingers back through it before smothering himself with a towel. Then went for the blow-dryer, because he was cold. He briefly entertained the idea of blow-drying his entire body clean, as he stood in the nude in front of the mirror making a mess of his curls. But, no, that sounded too impractical. So he made sure his hair had mostly dried and used the towel on the rest of him—and then wondered why he hadn't just dried his skin off _before_ blow-drying his hair.

He couldn't think of a reason other than absentmindedness.

When he got in bed, in his pajamas, the cat jumped up into the sheets beside him. She meowed as if to ask, "Why the hell are you going to sleep before four o'clock, you weirdo?"

Chuck petted her. "Are you gonna take a nap with me?" He made kissy noises at her until she deigned to poke his mouth with the tip of her nose. She licked his nose, whiskers tickling his face, and batted at him. He laughed and kissed the top of her head. "Sweet dreams."

She climbed onto his head when he lay down. He only tried to move her enough to breathe.

Chuck's nap went until sunset. In fact, he didn't end up going to bed for the night until past three in the morning, since he napped so late.

Due to this, he overslept.

In fact, he woke only when furious knocking joined the doorbell's pathetic buzz and the cat got so annoyed that she hit Chuck in the face with her foot. Chuck startled awake, nearly shoving the cat off the bed, and sat up blearily. After a few seconds he realized someone was at the door and almost fell off the bed _himself_ in his hurry to run downstairs. "Coming!" He tripped on the rug under the coffee table on his way to the front hall. He opened the door wearing nothing but his boxers and a Johnny Cash t-shirt, hair mussed and probably looking like he just climbed out of a shallow grave.

"H—hi!"

Lucifer raised his eyebrows. "Did I... wake you?"

"Um—" Chuck looked down at himself. "I went to bed late. Uh. Just... come inside." He stepped aside to let Lucifer into the house. Tried his best to not be embarrassed by his lack of clothing, and didn't really succeed. His boxers didn't exactly cover much more than his butt and the very tops of his thighs, after all. He pulled at his shirt in the hopes he could cover himself up more. (Futile.)

With a brief glance at Chuck's bare legs, carrying almost all of his cleaning equipment, Lucifer came inside. He set everything down either on or beside the coffee table. He set out some cleaning solutions, a few rags and a circle of steel wool. "I'm going to clean your couch. And if it doesn't get clean I'm going to take it into your backyard and burn it." He paused. "Your lampshade too. It's disgusting."

"Wow, straight to the insults." Chuck rubbed his eye with a yawn.

Lucifer rolled his eyes.

Chuck left him to clean and made a beeline for the coffee machine. He glared it down while it burbled, and practically dared it to mess up. But damn, was he tired. And he just wanted his caffeine so he could properly start the day and be more of a sloppy ray of sunshine and less of a tired, grumpy bundle of fuzz.

When his coffee was ready, Chuck plopped himself down at his computer desk, with his knees drawn up under his chin and his feet on the seat of the chair. He breathed in the steam from his coffee and watched Lucifer attack the couch with what looked like vinegar and a ragged washcloth. The setup certainly offered a nice view of Lucifer's backside... No white pants that day. Pastel green instead and obscenely tight, and a shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Not cut off. Not carefully removed. Literally torn off at the seams. The collar seemed torn off too—to make what almost definitely could be called a muscle tee.

"Is that another shirt from a concert that happened before you were conceived?" Chuck sipped at his coffee.

A beat of stillness before Lucifer shot Chuck a look over his shoulder—one eyebrow up, smirking slightly. "Are you making fun of my band shirts?"

Chuck shrugged. "I dunno. How many do you own? Are any of them normal, intact t-shirts? Or are you, like, allergic to sleeves?" He grinned into his mug, when Lucifer made an offended face, mouth in an O.

"How dare you. It's the middle of July—of course all of my shirts are sleeveless. Fortunately for _you_, I don't enjoy sweating into my clothes while I clean strangers' houses." Lucifer returned to swiping at Chuck's couch with vinegar. But the set of his back had changed, and he was obviously waiting for Chuck to respond—his posture gave away his shift in focus. At the last moment, he added, "Anyway, you're the one wearing booty shorts and a shirt with a dead guy's face on it."

For a moment, Chuck didn't know what to say. He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'fortunately for me'?" He set his mug on the desk, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his knees. "Also, these aren't booty shorts! They're boxers! And what do you have against Johnny Cash, huh?"

"When I say 'fortunately for you', I mean 'fortunately for you, my many sleeveless shirts allow you to ogle my fantastic arms the entire time I'm cleaning this shithole.'" Lucifer scrubbed harder at the couch. "And they _are_ booty shorts. They're tiny—have you had them since middle school?"

Chuck blinked. His forehead wrinkled as he frowned. "No need to be _rude_." He twisted his mouth. "Anyway, who says your arms are even that fantastic? If you ask me, they're just... just okay. Just pretty nice. Not fantastic or amazing. And shut up about my underwear, you're probably wearing a _thong_!"

Lucifer's eyebrows shot up. "A thong—Well, I won't get into that." He twisted to look more firmly at Chuck, and said, "Anyway. These arms? They are not 'just okay.' When I say 'fantastic' I mean it." He made a fist—flexed his arm, and patted his bicep with his free hand. "That's some quality shit, right there."

Despite his attempts to stay straight-faced, Chuck couldn't help but laugh. "I still don't think—Well, I don't think they're arms to be grateful for! Maybe admirable, kinda. But..." Chuck rolled his eyes. "I mean. They're just arms. They're not gonna save my life or something."

"You can't be certain of that." Lucifer grinned. He tossed his rag at the bucket on the floor, and almost knocked the bucket over. "What if you fell into traffic and I caught you, and thus saved your life? Hm?"

Chuck rolled his eyes.

Lucifer stuck his tongue out as he stepped back from the couch. Turned his attention away from Chuck, to give the upholstery a disapproving look. He clearly wasn't satisfied, despite the fact that the couch looked a lot cleaner than before—Chuck could hardly see the weird brown stains on the back. It looked brighter and shinier, and probably didn't smell like cat pee. Or sweat. Definitely smelled like vinegar though, even from across the room. Chuck wrinkled his nose.

A few more hours passed while Lucifer continued to attack the couch. He tried to clean the lampshade as well but just ended up ripping it off of the lamp base and stomping on it. After he'd cooled down a bit, he had the decency to look sheepish and muttered, "I'll buy you a new lamp." He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Sorry—I didn't mean to lose my temper. The smell of vinegar gives me a headache and your lampshade is just _revolting_."

In his chair, a little taken aback, Chuck squeaked, "You don't... have to... Uh. No new lamp. I'm cool." He pushed his fingers back through his hair. "Um. Do you wanna take a break? I can make lunch?" He accidentally caught Lucifer's eye—looked at the floor and flushed a bit.

Lucifer crossed his arms, shifting his weight to one foot. His expression softened. "Sure. Sounds good. Anything you make, I'll eat." His smirk seemed less of a leer and more of an amused smile than usual. "Oh." He glanced out the front window. "Do you mind if I go outside to smoke?"

"Oh, sure. Go ahead." Chuck pulled himself to his feet. "As long as you don't catch my yard on fire."

"No kidding. I'll be careful. That grass looks dangerous." Lucifer winked, and turned on his heel to head outside. The door rattled behind him—Chuck peeked out the front window, as discreetly as possible, curious. Lucifer sat down on the front doorstep, oblivious to being watched, and lit a cigarette as he stretched his legs out in front of him. He watched the cars drive past for a few seconds. Picked a leaf from one of the dying rosebushes clinging to the siding of the house. He breathed out a plume of smoke that briefly engulfed his face before drifting up into the summer air. He closed his eyes. Then glanced over his shoulder and immediately made eye contact with Chuck.

Chuck froze.

A slow smirk overtook Lucifer's face, as he stared Chuck down.

Chuck felt his face heat up—knew he had turned bright red—and ducked away from the window. He almost ran to the kitchen in his embarrassment. Stuck his head in the fridge to search for food and distract himself. Right. Lunch. He needed to make lunch for both of them. Something most people would like to eat. Probably not low-quality mac and cheese... Perhaps a sandwich. Chuck had some sliced Swiss in the fridge... And some sort of stale but still good sourdough. That would taste good, right? He grabbed the last of his butter from the refrigerator door and set about slathering some slices of bread with it—set the frying pan on the burner to heat up, as he did so.

When he flicked a little drop of water into the pan and it hissed, Chuck dropped the bread in butter-side down and began to stick pieces of cheese onto the slices as quickly as he could. Then put the other bread slices on top with the butter up.

The ideal sandwich-making scenario.

Chuck felt kind of like a dork, standing there, staring expectantly at his slowly frying bread.

The front door open, and he resisted the urge to look out the kitchen doorway. Chances were, Lucifer would come to him anyway. To make fun of him, or something.

Sure enough, the wood floors creaked, and Lucifer's voice came from behind Chuck—"Did you see something you liked, out there, or were you just spacing out in my direction?" He came up beside Chuck. Leaned against the counter with an eyebrow up, and a cheeky grin. He smelled like tobacco smoke and grass.

"I was just—" Chuck poked at the sandwiches with his spatula. "Admiring the view." His mouth curled up. He couldn't tell if he felt too warm from the stove, or from blushing.

Lucifer laughed, quietly. "The view from here's not so bad either."

Chuck made a face. Wrinkled his nose, but gave a bashful smile. He flipped the sandwiches—nice and toasty brown—before going on to say, "I don't know about that. I'm pretty plain to look at." His smile widened to a grin. "I don't have life-saving biceps like you do." He shot Lucifer a mischievous look.

"I beg to differ." Lucifer slid a little closer, something predatory in his eyes, but also something strangely fond. Still, he looked vaguely amused, as always. Laughing at other people's expense. But his teasing leer softened, as he reached a hand up to brush against Chuck's face. He pressed his thumb—cool and a little rough-skinned—against Chuck's lips. "I think you're handsome."

Wide-eyed and flushed, Chuck held very still. He didn't know what to do—this kind of situation. Well, it was something straight out of a porno, if he were to be honest. And he was just a normal guy. Not a suave guy, not a dirty guy. Just Chuck. And he really wasn't used to strong flirting or heavily-charged possibly sexually tense moments. Not that he was inexperienced, he just usually ended up being the one to awkwardly ask the other person if they maybe wanted to hang out sometime. He didn't usually end up with a near stranger, about to kiss in his kitchen, without ever even having gone on a date. Hell, they'd only met the day before. Chuck frowned.

Lucifer inched closer. He frowned. "You don't want to...?"

Chuck almost jumped. His forehead wrinkled, and he made an uncertain expression. "It's not—it's not that." His heart felt like it wanted to explode. He twisted his mouth. "I'm ruining the... the moment, aren't I?" He sighed.

"Of course not." Lucifer let his hand drop to Chuck's side—trailed his fingers down his ribs to his hip. "But... I think lunch might be burning..." He grinned.

"Oh—shit!" Chuck hadn't even noticed the smell. He pulled away and turned off the burner, moving the pan to a cold one. He flipped the sandwiches over, and sure enough the bread was nearly black. He covered his face with his hands and heaved a sigh. "I'm such a dumbass."

Gently, Lucifer tugged Chuck closer, letting his other hand rest against Chuck's side as well—a hand on each hip, palms cold and fingers digging in just enough to encourage Chuck to step into Lucifer's personal space. "Nonsense. You just got distracted." Lucifer leaned down until their foreheads touched. "I want to kiss you." His nose brushed Chuck's, as his voice dropped to a whisper. "May I?"

Pink in the face, still—maybe more so than before—Chuck nodded imperceptibly. He licked his lips. Muttered, "I—I'd be okay with that..." He brought his hands up. Didn't know what to do with them, so he grabbed onto Lucifer's arms. "Super okay with it, actually."

Lucifer huffed out a laugh. He slid one hand up Chuck's side, over his chest and along his neck, to cup the back of Chuck's head. He closed the tiny space between their mouths. Drew Chuck close against him, chests almost touching, as he tangled his fingers in the shorter man's hair. He walked Chuck backwards until his back hit the wall adjacent to the cupboards. Bit at his lower lip, and kissed him again.

Chuck let himself be coaxed into opening his mouth—breathed a soft, startled gasp through his nose at the feel of metal against his tongue. And something else—split tongue? He gripped at Lucifer's bicep, probably hard enough to bruise, and pushed him back. "Your tongue is pierced!" He didn't know exactly what else to say. "And—and stuff."

Lucifer grinned. "It is." He stuck out his tongue and wiggled it. "I don't know how you never noticed before. It's pretty obvious." He could move the prongs of his tongue independently. He paused, thoughtfully. Rummaged in his pocket for something and pulled out a small tin. "I probably smell bad, huh?" He popped a mint into his mouth. Held one out to Chuck. "Want one? It's uh..." He glanced at the lid. "Spearmint."

"Oh." Chuck took it from Lucifer and popped it into his mouth. He made a face. Strong, and definitely minty. Maybe too minty for his tastes. "Thanks." He realized the fingers of his other hand were still locked tight around Lucifer's arm—loosened his grip, and slipped his hand up so he could drape his arms over Lucifer's shoulders. He got up on his tiptoes and kissed him, shyly.

Almost immediately, Lucifer managed to get his tongue back into Chuck's mouth, hands wandering—he slipped his fingers up underneath Chuck's shirt. Wedged him into the corner where the counter met the wall as he pushed Chuck's shirt up. After a moment's hesitation, he broke their kiss and moved his hands down. Not to grope, but to grab Chuck and turn so he could hoist him up onto the counter. Chuck flailed for something to grab ahold of, surprised, but pulled Lucifer closer once he regained his balance. He hooked his legs around Lucifer's waist, too, just for good measure.

Lucifer's fingers dug into his thighs.

Their little makeout session lasted until the cat walked into the kitchen and yowled as loud as she possibly could.

Peering over Lucifer's shoulder, Chuck shot his cat a glare. She blinked at him and meowed again, much quieter, but just as piercing. She flicked her tail. Chuck rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a cock block, cat." He leaned against Lucifer and stuck his arm out—shooed her. Of course, all she did was twitch her whiskers and tilt her head. She padded over towards them instead of going away, and got up on her hind legs to bat at Chuck's feet with her paw. Chuck wiggled his toes.

"Knock it off, kitty." He wrinkled his nose. "Your little fuzzy feet tickle!"

Lucifer laughed under his breath, hunching over and hiding his face in Chuck's neck. He mumbled, "There goes the mood." But he still smiled. "You're kinda cute, though."

"Shush!" Chuck poked Lucifer, leaning back on the counter under his weight—he propped himself against the countertop with one hand so Lucifer wouldn't knock him backwards. "I'm not cute! I'm a grown-ass man."

"Hmm..." Lucifer nipped at Chuck's neck. "Adorable grown-ass man."

Chuck tried not to blush, but he could feel the warmth grow across his face and his chest. "I'm not..." He let his other hand drop. Lucifer was leaning on him even more and he needed both arms to hold himself up. "You're squishing me."

With an innocent face, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows and slight smile, Lucifer let up his weight. He straightened. "Me? Squishing you? I would _never_." He trailed his fingertips, cold and rough-skinned, up Chuck's side. "Although... I don't know... You _are_ pretty squish-able."

Chuck rolled his eyes. He also shook his foot to get the cat away but she tried to grab it with her front paws, under the mistaken impression that he wanted to play a game. He flinched.

"Claws, kitty!"

Lucifer snorted. "Come on." He pulled Chuck into his arms, off of the counter. Chuck clung to him. Lucifer pushed the cat away with his boot, and carried Chuck out of the kitchen. He weaved between the cleaning supplies still scattered across the floor and made his way to the stairs without the cat managing to get between his feet. Instead, she meowed at him. He stuck his tongue out at her and went upstairs. Chuck laughed.

"Don't be so mean to the kitty. She doesn't know any better."

As Lucifer carried Chuck toward the bedroom he muttered, "I don't know about that. She seemed pretty aware of what she was doing." He kicked the bedroom door open. "Evil cat."

Chuck huffed. "She's not evil, she's just obnoxious." He grinned.

"So, she's like me?" Lucifer dropped onto his knees on the bed and let Chuck fall onto his back before pushing him down into the mattress. "Persistent, loud and irritating?" He kissed Chuck.

Chuck squirmed out from under Lucifer and scooted up the bed so he could prop himself against the pillows. He shrugged. "I don't know you that well. But, sure. You're totally just like my cat." He laughed and held his arms out. "Except much more attractive."

Narrowing his eyes, Lucifer climbed on top of Chuck. He didn't say anything. Chose, instead, to push at Chuck's shirt until Chuck swatted at his hand and pulled it off by himself. Lucifer smirked. He ran his palm from Chuck's stomach to his chest. "You're fuzzy."

"Only a little bit." Chuck tilted his head at an odd angle to look down at his chest. "Like, tiny fuzz. Negligible fuzz." His cheeks were flushed—he could feel it—and his stomach turned. A little embarrassed, a little nervous, and a little uncertain of himself. And insecure.

Lucifer rolled his eyes. "I didn't say it was a bad thing." He kissed Chuck. Sat up, with his weight on Chuck's thighs, and gave a crooked grin. "Maybe I like fuzzy." He grabbed the hem of his tank top and pulled it off over his head in one smooth movement, tossing it to the floor. Went for his belt, right after. Before he could slide his belt off, though, Chuck grabbed his hand.

"Hang on—" Chuck let his eyes linger on Lucifer's stomach before catching his eye. He tightened his fingers around Lucifer's wrist. "I don't think... that... Uh." He bit his lip. "I don't really know you well enough to... uh, to be comfortable with this? Moving... so quickly?" His voice rose a little in pitch, maybe due to his vaguely questioning tone, maybe due to nerves. He looked away, though. At the wall. Hoped Lucifer wouldn't laugh at him or think he was stupid or just leave, or, worse, try to keep going.

None of those things happened. Lucifer buckled his belt and lay down next to Chuck, lifting a hand to run his fingers over Chuck's jaw. He stared a while before speaking, voice low. "Sorry about that. I forgot to ask if you even wanted to do anything more than kiss." He kept a small distance between their faces. Close, but not too close. Intimate without being invasive. The corners of his mouth twitched up. "I can be overly enthusiastic, sometimes."

"I just—" Chuck took a breath while he gathered his words, and let it out in a noisy sigh. "Sorry. I get overwhelmed... a lot. Actually. And I'm kinda shy, about these things—like, I like sex and stuff but it kinda takes me some time to get really comfortable enough for it with most people. I mean, the kissing I was a little distracted and got, you know, caught up in it. You're a pretty good kisser for being so young. But anyway. Yeah. I guess. Maybe not right now, okay? Sorry."

Lucifer tapped the tip of Chuck's nose. He grinned. "You don't need to apologize for that. If you don't want to fuck, you don't want to fuck, and I'm not going to force you." He tried for a tentative, gentle kiss. "I may be a douchebag, on occasion, but I'm not that kind of guy."

"Only 'on occasion'?" Chuck smiled—miniscule but earnest, and relieved. "Thanks."

"No need to thank me for being a halfway decent human being." Lucifer narrowed his eyes. "Though a cookie wouldn't go amiss. Do you have any cookies? I'm hungry, since we didn't actually eat the lunch you burned."

Chuck snorted. "And whose fault was that?" He pushed himself up and hopped out of the bed. "I do have some Oreos, though." He bent down grabbed his t-shirt, pulling it back on, and made his way to the closet. Searched through the haphazard piles of clothing until he found a pair of mid-calf-length pajama pants that had definitely belonged to one of his ex-girlfriends. They were thin and patterned like an old floral rug. He put them on before leading Lucifer back downstairs.

The cat greeted him immediately, slinking her way between his bare ankles and purring. Chuck picked her up and she poked his nose with her own, whiskers tickly against his cheeks, and mewed. He smiled. "You're just a very possessive kitty. Hm?" He held her against his chest, and she stuck her face into his neck. "Yeah, I'm your person and no one else's, aren't I?" He sat down on the coffee table, listening to her purr and stroking her back.

Lucifer rolled his eyes and went back to cleaning. Not that there was much left to clean. Just some dusting, mostly, and bit of organizing—putting books on shelves in alphabetical order, and setting things straight.

After a few minutes, Chuck piped up with, "Hey, uh—Do you think you could maybe make this a regular thing?" He made a face. "I mean like, cleaning my house for money. Not the other stuff. Like... I can pay you, probably." He shrugged and leaned his head against the cat's.

"Well," Lucifer straightened up, a piece of paper towel in one hand. "I could consider it. If you make me food I might even lower the price. Maybe a once or twice a week thing?" He wiggled his eyebrows. "Or maybe we could just go on a date."

Chuck wrinkled his nose—the cat squirmed and he let her down. "I'm serious! If I have someone clean it regularly then I don't have to worry about deep cleaning and gross stains and stuff!" He scratched the back of his neck and looked down at the floorboards. "And I—I don't do so good on dates. I get nervous even if I've known the person for a million years but if you just came over every once in a while then I could get to know you better without it being in a date situation. More... more laid back. More of something I can deal with, 'cause it's my house and I'd be more comfortable." He stopped talking, hot under the collar and going a little pink. "Sorry, I'm rambling."

Lucifer thought a moment.

"One," he said. "Twice a week for ten dollars a day, lunch included." He narrowed his eyes. "Two: I won't make you go out with me if it makes you nervous. But maybe we could hang out some time and see a movie." He crouched down and began to put away his cleaning supplies. "Three: Don't apologize for rambling or being nervous. You can't help it." He cracked a grin. "And it's cute."

Chuck glared at Lucifer. "I don't see how that's cute but okay." He reached for his wallet before realizing that, since he was in his pajamas, it wasn't in his pocket. Because he didn't have pockets. He shook his head. "So, twenty bucks a week? I think maybe I can do that. Hopefully." He scrunched his face up, mouth twisting and nose wrinkling. "If I can't pay you I'll make you food or something... I'll give you a massage. I don't know. You can beat me up." He smiled.

"Beat you up? Never." Lucifer shut his little box of cleaning supplies. "I couldn't bear to see you cry."

"I wouldn't cry!"

Lucifer raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, maybe a little bit but only because you could probably break my face without even trying." Chuck slid off the table to sit on the floor and crossed his legs. "Really, though, I'll try to pay you. I mean, you already charge less than every person on the planet—do you already have a job or something? Why do you undercharge? Charity?"

With a hum, Lucifer murmured, "Boredom." He shrugged. "Offering to clean a house for free is shady. Not that I'm not shady, but I'm not _that_ shady." He winked and sat down as well, stretching his legs out. "I figure, why not charge something extremely cheap. Make a little bit of extra spending money—not that I need any—and clean total strangers' houses while I'm at it. I like meeting strange people, and strange people tend to be the ones who see my ads and call me. And, yeah, I kind of like to clean. I like spotlessness." He glanced at Chuck. "But sometimes a bit of messiness is alright."

Chuck ducked his head. "A—anyway." He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to his desk—wallet, right by the keyboard. He pulled out two twenties and held them out to Lucifer. Didn't meet his eyes. Watched his boots against the wood floors instead.

At first, Lucifer didn't take the money.

Chuck looked up, forehead creasing. "Aren't you gonna take it?"

"This is extra." Lucifer frowned. "You don't have to tip me. $33.50 is enough. Really. Maybe an extra fifty cents if you don't have change. Surely you have a ten and a five."

"No, no." Chuck pushed the money toward him. "Take it. You earned it, and I'm gonna get a little extra money soon, probably. 'Cause my book went out, right? Take it."

Lucifer sighed, but he took the bills and shoved them into his pocket. "Fine. But you get a kiss for it. 'Kay?" He pecked Chuck's cheek. "You better call me soon so I can start cleaning your house on a regular basis." He grinned and patted Chuck's shoulder. "See you soon."

"Yeah... I'll see you!" Chuck watched Lucifer gather up his things—watched him head outside, and watched him get into his brother's truck, from the front steps. He waved, and Lucifer gave him devil horns instead of a wave before starting the truck and driving off.

Chuck couldn't help but smile.

The cat rubbed against his ankles and he picked her up, and muttered into her fur, "Time to learn how to make friends with people, kitty."

She meowed.


End file.
